


my beautiful trauma

by brionyjae



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: 3x07 "Welcome To The Jungle", Angst, Episode Related, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, MICK NEEDS A HUG DAMMIT, non-explicit mention of self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 00:43:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12876525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brionyjae/pseuds/brionyjae
Summary: After the team leaves the Vietnam War, Mick tries to drown his pain with beer and whiskey, to forget, to not feel. Ray, of course, notices, and wants to help.An atomwave post-3x07 fic because I was having all the Mick feels after an amazing episode!





	my beautiful trauma

**Author's Note:**

> So I actually only just started shipping Mick and Ray like four weeks ago?? I finally watched S2 and I think it was around the zombie episode that I was Atomwave _trash_ , hahaa. Normally I wait a bit longer until I write fic for a ship, but then 3x07 came along, and I was hit with too many Mick feels. And, naturally, I had to write Ray comforting him. ALSO the whole thing with Ray sitting at a table for two with an extra bottle of beer. ([I actually made a tumblr post about this haha.](http://brionyjae.tumblr.com/post/167814794917/lot-3x07-atomwave-headcanon)) OH YEAH and I can't believe there are so few atomwave fics out there?? Definitely needs fixing! ANYWAY. Hopefully y'all like this - I'm sure I'll be writing more atomwave in the future!
> 
> Title is taken from Pink's "Beautiful Trauma", which is SUCH an atomwave song ughhh.
> 
> Enjoy xx

* * *

God. Mick needed a fucking drink. He needed ten fucking drinks. He needed enough fucking drinks to forget, even just for a few hours, about his Dad, and the entire shitshow that was their stop off in Vietnam.

He was sitting in probably his favourite room in the Waverider - the galley. He'd swallowed his first beer in one desperate gulp, and was halfway through a second bottle. Anything to fill the empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. The galley was silent, almost enough to erase the sound of napalm roaring through the damned jungle.

Mick was alone.

After returning to the Waverider, he'd gone straight to his quarters to tear off his stinking army clothes because he couldn't bear to wear them a second longer than he'd had to. (His boots _were_ the wrong damn size.) He'd been tempted to burn them, but he'd let Nate keep his best lighter, and he hadn't trusted himself with the Heat Gun - he might not have been able to stop. Instead, Mick had settled for shoving the clothes in one of the ship's trash chutes, slamming the lid down with a bitter sort of relish.

He'd just finished his second beer when his hideout was invaded. Stein and Jax rushed straight over to the kitchen, obviously excited about something. Pointless. Everything was pointless. Neither of them seemed to notice Mick's presence, which was absolutely fine by him - but then, someone else entered the galley, and Mick felt his muscles involuntarily freeze up.

 _Of course_ it was Haircut. And, of course, his eyes slid over to Mick immediately. He'd been smiling (when was he ever not?), but as he looked at Mick, his smile slowly dimmed, and was replaced by a crinkle in between his eyebrows. Mick was used to wiping people's smiles away. He forced his limbs back into action, tipping half of his third bottle of beer down his throat. It was a good excuse not to have to meet Ray's gaze. Ray watched him for a moment, then took a determined step forwards. He opened his mouth.

"Dr. Palmer, I believe your expertise in the kitchen puts you first in line to recreate this masterpiece," Stein called from the far side of the room.

"Coming," Ray said, tilting his head towards Stein, but keeping his eyes on Mick. Mick wasn't even in the mood to snicker at Ray's unintentional innuendo. "Listen - Mick, are you - how are you feeling?"

Mick narrowed his eyes, letting out a grunt at Ray's use of the word. Usually, he'd rather set himself on fire than admit to _having_ feelings, let alone talking about them. But. Not that he'd ever say it out loud, but telling Nate a tiny part of his history with his Dad had kind of helped him work some things out. Ugh. He supposed that was progress?

Didn't mean he was in any hurry for a repeat, though. Right now, he wanted to _not_ feel.

"It's just," Ray said, once he'd decided that he wasn't going to get an answer from Mick. "Uh, Nate told me what happened out there - he was pretty worried about you, actually."

"You can tell Pretty not to lose any of his beauty sleep," Mick snorted. His gloved fingers slipped against the cool glass bottle.

"He's not the only one who's worried," Ray said quietly. Something was stuck in Mick's throat, but he couldn't think of anything to say anyway, so he just stared at Ray. Ray held his gaze, as if he was trying to figure Mick out - the same look that he got when he was studying a new piece of tech, or fixing part of his suit. Not that Mick paid attention to Haircut's catalogue of facial expressions. At all.

"Ray! Come on man, I'm starving over here." Jax's voice made Ray jump. Mick couldn't help but notice that his cheeks were tinted light pink. Ray mumbled something unintelligible, and fled to the kitchen. Mick didn't feel disappointed.

An hour later, the galley was packed, with even Sara waking up to join the celebrations. Not that Mick had any idea what they were _celebrating_. He'd easily finished his six pack of beer (Nate still owed him one), but it wasn't enough tonight. He was starting to wish he had something stronger, something that burned its way down his throat into his stomach. Something to distract him from the feeling of his heart being squeezed tighter and tighter.

Ray had joined him at his table for two a while ago, tucked along the wall, detached from the team. Mick had been about to leave, but Ray had brought him a slice of pecan pie, and Mick couldn't bring himself to say no to that bright smile. The pie actually tasted pretty good - and gave him something else to focus on, just for a minute.

Wiping that science nerd's memory, whoever the fuck he was, had felt pretty good too.

It still wasn't enough.

Mick had just retreated to the kitchen for about the sixth time when he felt someone come up behind him. The rest of the team had been giving him a wide berth all evening, so Mick knew who it was without needing to look.

"What do you want, Haircut?"

Mick turned around in time to catch the wince on Ray's face.

"I just thought, maybe we could - talk, or -"

Mick's lungs felt like they were filling up with ash.

"Do I look like I want to talk?" Mick ground out.

"Or we could watch a movie - we haven't watched 'Fiddler on the Roof' for a while, I know you love that one -"

Was there something wrong with the stupid Waverider life support systems? Mick couldn't seem to suck in a damn proper breath of air.

"Gideon," Mick interrupted. "Get me a bottle of the cheapest whiskey you can think of."

"Coming right up, Mr. Rory."

Seems like Gideon knew when not to argue with him. Mick ignored Ray's deepening frown, and rescued the bottle of whiskey now sitting in the replicator. Its heavy weight was somehow reassuring.

"Mick, please," Ray said, and he was suddenly a step closer, and Mick couldn't move, couldn't push past him, wasn't sure if he wanted to. He wanted to be alone - and at the same time he _really didn't_ want to be alone. He kind of wanted his lighter back. He wanted to be in Aruba right now.

He wanted to be much more drunk than this.

"Stop," Mick muttered, and his shoulders were slumping, curling in on themselves, and all he could see was Ray's chin. Normally they were around the same height, but Ray currently seemed a lot taller for some reason. Mick hated this feeling. It reminded him of the times when the Time Masters had taken a break from the torture, and left him lying there, alone, in the darkness. Mick had preferred the physical form of torture.

"I want to help. What can I do to help?"

Ray was too quiet, too gentle, and Mick couldn't handle that. Especially not in front of the whole team. He needed fire, he needed breaking glass. He needed his whiskey.

"You wanna help? Then leave me alone."

Mick forced himself to watch Ray's expression flicker, his eyes drop to Mick's chest, the flash of hurt impossible to miss. This is why Mick needed to be alone, so the only person he could hurt was himself. He brushed past Ray, pretending he didn't notice Ray's fingers catching at his shirt, and strode through the galley towards the exit. He thought the rest of the team might be staring at him, but he kept his gaze firmly on the door, and then, he was out in the corridor. Free.

He couldn't go back to his quarters, though. Too much like a cell. Mick needed more space - but still somewhere he was unlikely to be disturbed.

The cargo bay it was, then. It had the added bonus of a quick exit - even if it was into the temporal zone.

Settling down on one of the hard metal crates, Mick cracked open the bottle of whiskey, and took a long draught. The surrounding metal was cold, biting, but the whiskey burned all the way to his stomach.

He'd never _ever_ expected to have to see his Dad again. All the memories that he thought he'd buried - underneath smoke and crime and even the Time Masters mind-fuckery - they'd come simmering to the surface the moment Mick had seen him. He'd thought, initially, that he'd finally get the chance to rage at the man, to let him know how much he'd truly fucked up, maybe punch him in the face. But... he couldn't. (Except that last one, which he didn't regret _at all_.) Because the Vietnam war was hell, and while it wasn't fair, and Mick still fucking _hated_ how his Dad had treated him, he couldn't blame him, not completely. He _understood_.

They were more alike than Mick wanted to admit. They were both made into monsters.

Mick wished, not for the first time, that he still had his lighter. He had others in his quarters, lifted from different people and different places, but he'd always had that one in the pocket of his jacket. Just in case. Mick knew, deep down, he'd been right in letting Nate keep it, but it didn't change the fact that he really wanted that lighter right now.

He made do with sloshing another swallow of whiskey into his mouth. It was over half gone - how had that happened? Mick was starting to feel the numbing buzz from all the alcohol he'd consumed, the world looking fuzzy around the edges. About damn time.

The footsteps echoing off the walls cut through the haze, and told Mick that someone had hunted him down, again. Haircut never could give up on a lost cause. Surprisingly, the whiskey hadn't fuelled his anger like it often did. This time, it had dulled his rage - dulled most things inside of him. That's why, he told himself, he didn't tell Ray to piss off. Mick didn't say anything at all. Ray carefully lowered himself onto a metal crate next to him, the movement disturbing the cool air in the cargo bay. An unconscious shiver ran up Mick's spine.

For once in his life, Ray didn't speak either. It was... really fucking weird, actually. Mick glanced blearily over at him, just to make sure Ray hadn't died or something, but Ray was just sitting there, looking at nothing in particular. Not even looking at Mick. It was nice, and exactly what Mick wanted, but it was wrong. Ray wasn't supposed to be quiet. And it was unnerving, wondering how Ray even understood what Mick wanted, what Mick needed. It came a little too close to... feeling something.

Mick had to break the silence.

"Stop worrying, Haircut. I'm fine," he said gruffly. At this, Ray did look up.

"Mick, you don't have to be fine. I don't expect you to be! And... hurting yourself isn't what fine looks like."

Mick's whiskey soaked brain took a few seconds to catch up with what Ray had said.

"Pretty told you," he huffed.

"Sounds like something to worry about, if you ask me."

Mick grit his teeth, and clenched his hand around the neck of the bottle.

"I don't want you to worry about me," he growled.

Suddenly, Ray was holding his shoulder, turning Mick around to force him to meet Ray's eyes.

"I'm always going to worry about you, Mick."

The intensity of Ray's gaze, the _feeling_ in them, caused every possible reply to flee Mick's mind. His expression felt like it was made of carved stone, but there was a prickling heat building in his eyes.

"It's not just the lighter," Ray said softly. "You were ready to kill your Dad back there, even though that would've meant you never existed."

Mick forced himself to swallow.

"The bastard was pointing his gun at you," he rasped. "Couldn't let him take anything else from me."

Ray's eyebrows jumped upwards, as if Mick had managed to surprise him. He continued staring at Mick - his eyes were wide, but Mick had no idea what he was thinking. He'd said too much. Fucking whiskey. He'd never noticed how many different coloured flecks of brown there were in Ray's eyes before.

Finally, Ray lifted one side of his mouth up in a half smile.

"You can't get rid of me that easily."

It was only when Ray started moving his hand across Mick's shoulder that Mick realised that Ray was still touching him. Ray settled his palm on the nape of Mick's neck, his fingers curling against the skin there. Mick distantly wondered if Ray knew that it was one of the places where his nerves hadn't been damaged by his burns - one of the few places where he could feel _everything_. After a second, though, Mick stopped wondering anything at all; the feeling of skin-on-skin contact, the complete opposite of punching someone in the face, was firing neurons that Mick wasn't aware he had.

Mick grunted in an expected show of displeasure - or, at least, tried to. It might've been lacking some of his usual heat. He was hyper aware of how close Ray was, somehow sliding seamlessly into his personal space, past his defences. Maybe it was just the warmth of the whiskey - maybe it was the warmth of Ray's hand - but Mick felt like he could breathe a little easier for the first time since he'd returned to the Waverider.

They sat there long enough for Mick to lose track of time. Every so often, Ray would smooth his fingertips over Mick's neck with an almost hypnotically slow speed. God, he could fall asleep like this. Last night Mick had tried lying down on the hard jungle floor for a couple of hours, but his mind had been too busy running through memories of his parents to switch off.

Damn, he was fucking _exhausted_.

"Hey, Mick," Ray whispered. "You still awake, buddy?"

When had his eyes closed? Mick reluctantly blinked them open and attempted a sideways glare at Ray. Judging by Ray's dopey smile, it didn't have the desired effect.

"You need to get to bed. Come on."

Mick let Ray manoeuver one of his arms around Ray's shoulders. If anyone tried to remind him of this later, Mick would just blame it on the alcohol. Speaking of. Ray took hold of the whiskey bottle still enclosed in Mick's fist. Their hands brushed, but Mick couldn't really feel Ray's hand properly through his gloves. Kind of made him want to take them off for once, for something other than the historical necessity of a mission.

"I think we'll just leave that here," Ray said, and his voice was steady, low. Mick loosened his grip on the bottle, and Ray reached down to tuck it into a corner on the steel floor. "Ready?"

Mick wanted to ask what for, but he got his answer when Ray surged upwards; suddenly they were both standing, Mick's arm still settled around Ray's neck. It was easy to forget that underneath those nerdy sweaters and his suit, Ray actually had a pretty good set of muscles. Also. Ray's arm was now wrapped around Mick's waist. Which was. Different.

It was an unfamiliar feeling, trusting Ray to guide him through the corridors of the Waverider. It wasn't like Mick was so drunk that he couldn't have found his own way back - he realised his eyes were shut again, and he forced them open - although, it wouldn't be the first time he'd passed out somewhere other than his quarters. Who cared if he made it back to his bed, aka, bench press.

The bench press that was about as hard as the dirty jungle floor.

Something squeezed Mick's heart again, and he dug his feet in, determined on telling Ray that he _didn't want to go to bed, dammit,_ he wanted to go back to the galley and get a more expensive bottle of whiskey and drink the whole lot until he knocked himself out where he sat.

"Uh - yeah, I know, you probably don't want to be here, but I think it's for the best -"

Mick's blurry vision focused on the door in front of him - which was actually _not_ his door.

It was Ray's.

"What?"

Mick tried to turn to look at Ray, but Ray was still mostly holding him upright, which meant that their foreheads bumped together. Their noses were almost touching. It was a few seconds before Mick had enough presence of mind to lean backwards.

"I, um," Ray started, and yeah, his cheeks definitely looked red. "I think you should sleep with me tonight - I mean! Sleep _here_ , not _with_ me, I just meant - um, so I can keep an eye on you, make sure you don't die, or something."

That was the babbling hot mess Mick was used to. Ray's flushed skin and slight grimace loosened something in Mick's chest, and before he knew it, a deep chuckle had escaped his mouth. For a moment, Ray looked as if a connection had short circuited in his brain, eyes wide and mouth gaping at him. Then, he shook his head minutely, and smiled through his embarrassment.

"Uh - is that a yes?"

Mick considered the idea for all of five seconds. This way, he didn't have to sleep on his bench press, or drink himself into a coma. Ray had figured him out again.

"It's not a no."

Ray's smile grew so wide, so blinding, that Mick couldn't look anywhere else. Eventually, though, his eyelids began to droop again, and next thing Mick knew, he was being lowered onto Ray's bed. Ray had managed to take off Mick's leather jacket, shirt, boots and jeans without him noticing.

"If you'd wanted to see me in my underwear, you coulda just asked," Mick snorted, which was quickly followed by a yawn.

"Shut up, Mick."

Ray's voice was much fonder than the words suggested, and Mick would've sneered, but his brain was more interested in becoming unconscious as soon as possible. He rolled over to his side, curling up a little on instinct. The mattress was soft, easy to sink into. His breathing was just evening out when the bed dipped beside him.

"Haircut?" Mick mumbled.

"I'm here. Sleep, Mick."

Mick could feel the places where Ray's body met his - his knees, his back - and Ray's breath ticking the nape of his neck.

"Good night, Mick," Ray said, and Mick thought he might have felt Ray's lips against his skin, just for a second. He let out a long breath, and finally felt his body relax.

"...night, Haircut."

-end.

**Author's Note:**

> You can cry about atomwave with me over at my [tumblr](http://brionyjae.tumblr.com) :) xx


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